This Means War
by JamesLuver
Summary: A day of painting veers slightly off course when John and Anna find themselves distracted.


**A/N:** I'm sorry, I don't even know what this is. Also, the title has no relevance.

If I'm being honest, this was one of the most difficult things that I've ever written, simply for the (atrocious) paint fight scene. I think it's clear that I wasn't made to write more action-y scenes. I rewrote it about three times, and this was the best that I could come up with. Apologies for that.

The piece is rated M for sex. If you're not interested in that, you can still read the paint scene. It's obvious where you'd have to stop.

**Disclaimer:** We would have seen a paint fight and a sex scene if I owned _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

_This Means War_

Anna sighed happily as she paused in the middle of painting one of the walls in the tiny sitting room to survey her handiwork so far. Raising an arm to swipe the sweat from her brow, she smiled in satisfaction. She had done quite a good job of painting the wall, even if she did say so herself. At the other side of the room, John was still busily plastering paint over his section. She had to smile at the sight of him. Her husband wasn't the most talented of decorators, but his unbridled enthusiasm for such a trivial task was the most endearing thing that she had ever seen in her life. He hadn't noticed that she had stopped, and she was content enough to not draw attention to herself for the moment, simply soaking up the sight of him. Even now, it seemed almost absurd to her, that he could be standing there in the living room with her, paint brush in hand, adorable frown of concentration creasing his features. Was it only a few weeks ago that he had been languishing in a prison cell, growing more resigned by the day to the fate of living out the rest of his days there?

She shook her head. They had come so far in such a short space of time. She could scarcely believe that just a few days ago, they had finally been given a cottage to call their own. It was incredible how she had gone from simply existing without him to feeling so alive and free with him by her side once again.

John's absolute zeal over trivial matters such as rearranging the furniture had made her love him even more, if that was possible. She had never heard of a man showing such an interest in the décor of a cottage – _women's business,_ most would sniff. But her John, he had taken great delight in poring over every single detail of their home, from what colour they should paint the walls of the bedroom in, to the positives and negatives of the curtains that Anna had chosen. They had squabbled happily over the exact placement of the couch, and which cupboards in their kitchen should be used for storing food. Anna had never even realised that her life could get any more perfect.

They had been living in the cottage ever since they had been given it. His lordship had also graced them with a week off to transform it into a true home for them, and she and John had jumped at the chance to spend so much time alone. John was to return to his position of valet upon their return, and Anna had never seen him looking so happy.

"_I feel complete again,"_ he'd confided to her that first night in their very own bedroom, swathed in a knotted mass of sheets that didn't quite cover him_. "I have a purpose, and it's a great weight off my shoulders. I was beginning to worry about what I was going to do to support us. I'm limited with my leg."_

"_I knew you'd get your job back," _she'd replied, letting the sheets tangle around her legs. _"There was never a doubt in my mind."_

He'd sifted his hands through her hair, angling her face to his for a soft kiss. She'd sighed happily at the sensation of his naked skin everywhere on her body.

"_Thank you," _he'd murmured, muffling his words against her ear. _"I can't convey how much your faith in me means to me."_

They had had so much fun together, decorating their little home. Their laughter had reigned free, and they had made good progress. Already the bedroom was to their liking (and, happily, it had meant that they had spent many hours together in that wonderful room), and the kitchen was almost there too. Occasionally, however, they had found it much harder to work. John would see a quirk in Anna's countenance that made it difficult for him to concentrate; Anna would suddenly become enchanted by the way that John's forearms flexed as he moved things around – and that would lead to a couple of hours of distraction.

Now, Anna was finding the little frown on his face almost too diverting for words. There was just something so attractive about the look of concentration upon his face that she couldn't resist sidling up to him.

"Problem, Mr. Bates?" she asked innocently, resting a hand on his arm.

He started at the sound of her voice, turning to face her, his face clearing at once. "No, of course not."

She couldn't help grinning. "Well, you certainly looked deep in thought there."

"I'm merely making sure I do a good job."

There was something decidedly sloppy about the paint that was already splashed on the wall, but he looked so serious and dedicated that she just didn't have the heart to tease him about it. Instead she indulged him, stepping closer to inspect his work. "That's a very nice thing to say."

"Well, I want our home to be as perfect as it can possibly be."

_Our home._ It was a heady sentiment. Even now, she still couldn't quite believe it. This cottage was theirs. They were living in their very own home, completely alone. Together. They were able to eat their breakfast at a leisurely pace without having to lower their voices lest anyone overhear them. They could be as affectionate as they wanted without people turning their noses up and tutting at the impropriety of it all. They were able to share the same bed, curled up next to each other, John sleeping with his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close, she linking their fingers together. If they wanted to share more (an incredibly frequent thing now that they had been afforded the luxury to touch each other whenever the desire overtook them), then all they needed to do was close the curtains to shut out the outside world. It was taking them a long time to get their home just right, but Anna knew that it would be completely worth all of the effort in the end.

"You're certainly trying hard," she said, her tone teasing now.

Instead of responding in kind, however, he looked a little dispirited. "Are you saying that it's not as good as you'd like?"

"Of course not," she said quickly. "You're doing a wonderful job, John. In fact, you're doing a better job than I am."

It wasn't exactly true, but it was worth it to see his face lighting up with a proud grin. "Really?"

"Of course," she said.

"I could show you how I do it, if you'd like."

He looked like an eager boy standing in front of her with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and the apron covering the front of his clothes to stop any paint from spilling on them. She couldn't resist him like that.

"I'd like that," she said. "Now, where would you like me to go?"

"You can stand in front of me," he instructed softly. "That will make it easier."

She slipped in front of him, and he wrapped his left arm around her waist, his hand splaying warmly against her stomach. She shivered the sensation. She doubted that she would ever grow accustomed to the feel of her husband's hands on her body. Her back pressed warmly against him, and she shivered even more as he slid his right hand from her uncovered elbow, all the way down her forearm, to take possession of her hand within his. He made a fist around hers, extending her arm until the brush came into contact with the wall.

"Can you feel how I'm holding the brush?" he breathed in her ear, his breath so hot.

"Oh, yes," she said, voice breathy and low. His hand was so large, so warm. It enveloped hers completely.

"See how my grip is firm but tender?" he continued, his voice husky now. Slowly, he began to move the brush along the wall, painting a thin strip to emphasise his point. It was a bit wobbly and not quite as confident as his assertions, but Anna wasn't paying much attention to that. She was too focused on his hand over hers, the strength in his fingers, the way that they completely encircled hers.

"Oh, yes." The sigh fluttered from her lips again, and she let him continue onwards for a few minutes, simply losing herself in the subtle shifting of his body against hers as he rhythmically painted over the strip of wall. Anna's heart was thumping wildly in her chest. She could smell her husband's scent. It was wafting seductively through her sinuses, never quite enough for her to have her fill of it, no matter how much of it she attempted to drag into her lungs. If she turned her head, she'd probably be able to take in more of it. Slowly, she turned her head to the side, tilting it just perceptively so that she could gaze up into his face. The little frown was back. She wanted to kiss it away. Her eyes half-lidded with desire. She bit her lip, letting her teeth graze over it, darting her tongue out to wet them. She didn't know whether he'd noticed her staring at him or not, but his gaze didn't waver from what he was doing. Such a determined man, her husband. She felt a stirring low in her stomach. Her gaze flickered to his lips. God, she wanted to kiss him. No, she _needed_ to kiss him. Almost unconsciously, she began to lean up towards him, pressing her lips against the side of his mouth softly. He started a little when she did so, and she pulled away to watch his reaction to her; their arms stopped moving in the rhythmical pattern, and he dipped his own head so that he could gaze into her face. She saw a little surprise in his expression, but that quickly melted away as he recognised the light in her eyes – a light that he had only just started to get used to. She dropped her gaze to his mouth for a second time, then raised it again, only to find him staring at her own mouth, and she felt a thrill of anticipation at the sight. Her lips parted just slightly…and it was the only encouragement that John needed to bend his head and take possession of her mouth. The hand on her waist tightened its hold and pulled her back more firmly against him. John's other hand uncurled itself from around her fist to run his fingers enticingly up her forearm again. The hairs stood on end where he touched her. Anna's mouth moved slowly under his. It was a leisurely kiss, deep and slow. When his tongue slipped between her lips, she dropped the brush that she'd been holding from loose fingers, barely noticing it when it hit the floor and sent specks of paint flying, her hand finally free to snake around the back of her husband's head and pull it more firmly to her own. She felt his lips curling in a smile against hers even as he kissed her breathless, and she curled her fingers in his hair, loving the feel of the locks between her fingers. The hand on her stomach trembled; she laid her spare hand on top of it, keeping him in place.

Eventually, they parted, resting their foreheads against each other. Anna turned properly in his arms then, moving both hands to link around his neck, and he moved his to her hips. His eyes were dark. Painting appeared to be the last thing on his mind. He dipped his head for another kiss. She kept him at bay. He looked mildly surprised, mildly frustrated. The look excited her, and she found herself grinning, her playful mood from earlier catching up with her.

"Shall we…shall we take it upstairs?" he murmured hoarsely, sounding shy. It was endearing, the way that he always asked her permission before he did anything, in case it offended her or was something that she didn't want. It never would offend her, and she was sure that she would always want what he did. But he was a gentleman, and it made her love him all the more.

She shook her head, grin widening. "Not yet."

"Not yet?"

"No, we need to finish the painting."

He didn't even try to disguise his groan. "How can you say that now?"

"Well," she said, disentangling herself from his arms, "we should at least finish this little bit. And you've missed a spot."

He frowned, moving forward to inspect the wall that he'd been painting. "Where?"

She bent down, retrieved the brush that she had dropped minutes before. John was still squinting at the wall. His expression was truly adorable. Slowly, she dipped the tip of the paintbrush into the little paint pot that he had at his side.

"Here," she said softly, but instead of pointing to the wall, she lifted the brush and swiped it over his nose.

His face expression was absolutely priceless. Blinking in utter bewilderment, he raised his arm to his nose, attempting to wipe the paint from his face but only succeeding in smearing it. Anna didn't have the heart to tell him not to use his clothes; even though they were old – the ones that he'd been using when he'd been working in the Red Lion in Kirkbymoorside, no less – they were still trying to keep them as clean as possible so that they didn't have to waste time washing them between odd jobs. Instead, she giggled, stepping close to kiss him quickly, feeling the paint transfer from the side of his nose onto hers.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked when they parted, still looking completely confused.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"If you expect me to understand why you feel the need to paint me, then I'm afraid I don't."

She giggled again. "Well, I have to admit that I like a man who doesn't mind getting dirty."

He blinked. Anna was not usually one to speak so boldly. John assumed that it was because she was still growing accustomed to the two of them sharing the same space as husband and wife, and acclimatising to their new intimacies – she had never been one to shy away from making some sort of libidinous comment when they had simply been courting. He smiled. He liked that side of her and liked it when she let that side of her shine through, all flirty and cheeky.

"Well, you've certainly succeeded in making a mess of my face," he said. "I think that means that I now qualify as a man who doesn't mind getting dirty."

"Oh, no," she dismissed at once. "You're not nearly as messy as you should be. You don't even look like you've been painting."

"I thought the whole point was to keep as clean as possible?"

"There's nothing saying that you can't get it on your face, though."

To emphasise her point, she flourished the brush like a weapon and painted a long stripe from his temple to his chin. He blinked again, then made a snatch for the brush. She kept it out of his reach, her giggling becoming a loud squeal.

"Give that here," he growled, and she delighted in how low and husky his voice was.

"No!" she declared, then jabbed him quickly with it again. Flecks of paint hit his cheeks.

"You're being terribly unfair. That's my brush. You've left yours over there. _I _should be using that one."

She shook her head, backing away. "You've said so before: there's no such thing as fairness in war."

"Then there's nothing else for it," he said with an air of mock regret. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you prisoner by force and make you surrender."

"You'll have to catch me first," she declared, darting out of his way as he made another grab for her. Stooping quickly, she picked up the pot of paint that he had been using to coat the walls, slinging it over her wrist and slopping it over the sheet on the floor as it swung dangerously from side to side.

"This means war," he warned her, lurching forward.

She responded by dipping the brush in paint and flicking it at him again. "I have my ammunition. I'm ready for any nasty tactics that you might have up your sleeve."

The droplets hit his apron, and he raised an eyebrow at her. "You're going to have to do better than that. I'm not going to be showing you any mercy when I get my hands on you."

She shivered at the thought. "Oh, don't worry, Mr. Bates. I'm only just warming up."

When he moved towards her again, she made to dart past him, intending to head for the protection of her own territory: the kitchen, where she could put the kitchen table between them and think up a strategy beyond mindlessly flicking paint. She wasn't even sure why she had started this, but she didn't care. It was fun, and fun was something that she and John had never really experienced before. Faster than she anticipated, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, and she shrieked.

"That wasn't much of a fight," he said disappointedly, though his eyes twinkled. "That was hardly worth the effort."

"You think I'm done?" she panted. "Aren't you forgetting who has the advantage here?"

Before he had time to reply, she raised her right hand and jabbed forward with the paintbrush. It hit him square on the forehead, leaving a splodge of paint in its wake, and he reeled back with a grunt, his grip loosening on her momentarily in surprise. Anna took the opportunity to wriggle free, dashing madly past him.

"Anna!" she heard him growl. "You are such a cheat!"

"Stop being a sore loser," she retorted with a smirk. "And start acting like a soldier. _I'm_ beginning to feel like I haven't got a worthy opponent."

His eyes darkened at the challenge. "Oh, believe me, Anna, there's plenty of the old soldier in me that you haven't seen yet. But first I'm going to even up the odds a bit."

She realised with a thrill that his gaze was wandering in the direction of where she'd left her own painting utensils. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all.

Before she had much time to react, he turned away and began to limp towards her prize. She had about two seconds to do something before he got there and made things more even. Anna might have been an extremely fair soul on principle, but there was something terribly delicious about wielding some sort of semblance of power over her husband in jest. So, doing the only thing she could, she darted after him…

…And promptly emptied the contents of the tin of paint that she was clutching down his back. John gave another yelp of surprise as his back was suddenly drenched, and whipped around with eyes wide in shock; seeing her opportunity, Anna ducked under him and snatched up her back-up ammunition.

"We're not going to have enough paint to finish the walls now," was the only thing that John could think to say. He wasn't quite sure how he should react to being doused in paint; it was certainly an unpleasant and uncomfortable sensation, but Anna looked so radiant that he just couldn't be angry at her.

"Then this one will have to be used sparingly," she stated. "And, meanwhile, you're still proving to be a rubbish opponent."

"I can assure you, love," he said, "that you'll see the true meaning of worthy right now. I'm done playing."

"Come on then," she teased. "I'm waiting."

He stared her down for a moment, evidently sizing up his choices, changing and cataloguing his plan of attack. She stood motionlessly by, limbs stiff, attempting to guess and second-guess him. It was rather unnerving, to be stared at in such a way. She would never be intimidated by him, especially with the clearly playful look on his face, but there was something about his stance that was both erotic and commanding. The power in his bearing set her heart racing anew and, in that instant, Anna could easily imagine him as a young man in Africa, about to charge into battle, fearless with his knowledge that this time could be his last.

She was startled out of her thoughts by his lunge, and she had been so distracted by her thoughts that she failed to respond quickly enough. In an instant he had wrapped his fingers around her wrist again, his other hand moving to pin her spare arm by her side. She struggled valiantly against him for a moment, the tin of paint swinging precariously and the paintbrush dripping onto the floor. She managed to smother his palm in paint as she struggled against him, but that was as far as she could get this time. His grin was both triumphant and attractive, and she cursed herself for feeling such thrills when she was in the middle of a very important battle. It had to be against the rules of the game, she thought, for him to be able to use his charms to befuddle her.

"I think I'm a better opponent than you give me credit for," he purred. "I am willing to accept your apology the moment you want to give it."

She shook her head. "You most certainly will not be getting an apology."

His eyes crinkled as he leaned down. She could feel his breath hitting her lips. Dewdrops of paint ran down the side of his cheeks. She noticed a few droplets in his hair, where it had flopped over his forehead and dipped in the paint congealing there. She stopped fighting against him as he leaned down to her, capturing her lips sweetly. The fire in her insides flared at once, and she whimpered in the back of her throat. His kiss was too chaste, too light and feathery. She wanted more. When she darted her tongue out to taste his bottom lip as he kissed her, he squeezed her wrists more tightly, backing her up until she was pressed up against the wall, thankfully in a place that they had not started to decorate yet. His hips pressed against hers, and she fancied that she could feel the first stirrings of his desire for her against her. She made another needy noise, but it was lost in his mouth as she slipped her tongue inside to seek out the top row of his teeth. She felt him running his fingers up her forearms again, his fingernails grazing her skin gently. It felt absolutely wonderful, and she whimpered her appreciation as his hand slipped back down to circle around her wrist, feeling her pulse point, moving lower. His tongue found hers, and she tried to sigh raggedly. He filled her every sense. Her head felt fuzzy –

– And then he was pulling away from her, a wicked, satisfied smirk upon his face. For a moment, she wondered why he looked so pleased, and tried to whine her disappointment that he'd stopped kissing her when he had been doing such a wonderful job. And then he raised his arm. She followed its path. Her mouth fell open, and she glanced down at her right hand for confirmation. She was clutching at air. His brush was gone, now clasped between his own fingers.

"You cheated!" she said, glaring at him accusingly.

His smirk was patronising. "There's no fairness in war."

She pouted upon hearing her own words used against her, knowing that she'd be defeated in that battle.

"And," he continued, "we need to be even in other respects."

"What?"

She didn't know if her stomach was contracting in nervousness or desire as he looked upon her. His movements were slow, almost lazy, as he raised his right arm. It hit her with clarity then, what he was about to do, and she was all too aware of the hard wall pressing into her back as she pressed her palms flat against it with a shriek of, "John Bates, don't you _dare_!"

Too late. John's arm came down in a perfect arc and swiped across her forehead, leaving a wet streak of white paint in its wake. Anna shrieked louder, raising her arms in part protest, part defence, and received another strike across her forearms. His chuckle was low and pleased, and she lowered her arms enough to glare at him.

"Well," he said, "it's not exactly even, but it's a very good start."

She shook her head, reaching towards her side and picking her own brush out of her paint pot as though she was unsheathing a sword. "I've still got the paint, and I'm not afraid to use it. Don't tempt me any further. Concede defeat while you still can." She brandished the brush emphatically in warning.

His smile was determined. "Never."

"Then I'm afraid you give me no choice."

"And _you_ give _me_ no choice."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He gazed steadily back. Neither of them moved, sizing each other up once again. And then John was raising his paintbrush, fast as lightning, and she was raising her own in defiant answer, and then they were giggling madly as they did everything in their respective powers to gain the upper hand in their ridiculous fight. John made a valiant grab for the tub of paint still somehow swinging from Anna's wrist, and she responded by swiping paint across his chin. He growled at her and managed to land his own brush against her cheek, but his was drying from its repeated use, and he was going to need a way of replenishing it soon if he wasn't going to be spectacularly beaten. It was becoming clear that playing dirty was the only way that he was going to gain anything from this; gritting his teeth, he ducked under her flailing brush and managed to grab her around the waist with both hands. She squeaked as he left a trail of paint across the back of her old dress, and raised her brush again. He earned another streak of paint across his cheek for his effort, but he held firm, anchoring himself securely to her.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded suspiciously.

"I'm glad you asked that," he murmured into her ear, making her shiver slightly. He nuzzled his nose against her cheek for a moment. She protested weakly as he transferred paint from himself onto her.

"Why?" She sounded more apprehensive now. "Mr. Bates…?"

She had no chance to get any further as he promptly dug his fingers into her sides. She squealed loudly, hands coming up to attempt to prise his arms away. He held firm.

"Don't you dare," she gasped. "Don't you _dare_, Mr. Bates!"

"Dare what?" he asked innocently. His fingers were tracing lazily over her sides. She began to shake, squealing louder.

"Don't you dare tickle me!" she managed in between her gasps for air.

His fingers began to nip at her sides more pronouncedly. "But you look so lovely when you're being tickled, love."

It was true. He couldn't fathom how she could be so utterly adorable when she was giggling wildly, but she was. He had discovered over the last few nights just how ticklish she really was, and he'd taken great pleasure in watching her squirm and writhe naked beneath his fingers, seeking out each sensitive spot, finding his own lust growing with each passing second as her body flushed and her limbs undulated in the most unintentionally erotic way. Now, this weakness of hers could be put to great advantage.

She was begging for mercy now that his fingers had managed to sneak their way under her armpits. He was overcome with the desire to kiss her as she laughed, smothering her sounds of joy against his lips, but he resisted the urge. It would not do to get distracted at such a crucial time. Not when he was so close to clinching his victory. Her grip was slackening as she squeaked, her arms falling back down to her sides as she lost the battle to fight him off, and he knew his chance was upon him. Quickly slipping his left hand down her body and doing his best to keep up his ministrations with his spare hand, he managed to hook his fingers around the tin of paint and pull it almost effortlessly from his wife's grip. She cried out in protest when she realised what he'd done, and he responded by abruptly ending his torture, stepping neatly away from her, dipping his brush into the paint and then swiping it over her neck before she even had the chance to take one step after him.

"Now who's the one with the advantage?" he jeered playfully, holding the paint up for her to see.

She rubbed at the paint on her neck, only succeeding in smearing it further. "Your tactics are completely unfair."

"I beg to differ," he said. "You were the one who started off the fighting dirty. I'm merely responding in kind."

"Well, it's not over yet," she declared. "You may think that you've won, but I'm far from being beaten."

"Glad to hear it," he drawled. "I enjoy a good challenge."

"Then a challenge is something you'll be getting," she said tartly. Her eyes darted around the room, attempting to gauge her next move. John was holding the tin of paint triumphantly in his hands. Noticing her gaze, he purposefully dipped the tip of the brush into the paint and let it drip there. She narrowed her eyes playfully at him. He was goading her. He thought that he had this sealed. But he was going to be in for a shock if he truly believed that she would give in so easily. She had always been practical if nothing else. She would find a way around this somehow.

And then her eyes landed on the sorry tin of paint that was currently seeping the last of its contents rather forlornly onto the floor. There was her lifeline. It might not have been much, but it would have to do; it would still be better than having nothing in her current predicament. Before he could react, she broke away to the left, darting around him, almost diving as she bent down and scooped up the pot. More paint dribbled over the edge as she did this, and the sides of the tin were slick enough with paint that she almost let it slip from her grasp and upend everywhere, but somehow she managed to keep hold of it.

John was staring at her with a mixture of appreciation and amusement. "Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that."

"I can be very unpredictable, I'll have you know."

"So I've come to learn," he growled. There was something sumptuous about his voice. It sent shivers careening down her spine. His eyes were dark and watchful. "So what are we going to do now?"

"We could call a truce," she said. "We could agree terms of settlement and be happy with a draw."

"We could," he agreed.

"Or we could fight it out until the bitter end, and I can show you that I'm the superior when it comes to these matters."

"I'm more inclined towards the latter," he growled. "But I'm afraid that _I'll_ be the one who comes out superior."

For a few moments longer, they stared each other down. And then they began to move in unison. John was the first one to land a hit; the little spots of paint that he flung in her direction hit her across the face. She cursed silently as she raised an arm to wipe them away, then tried to concentrate her own efforts on returning the assault. Her first effort fell woefully short; it wasn't helping that she had the less desirable tin of paint for use as a weapon. Seeing this, John chanced taking a few steps closer to her. Before she could get away, he raised his paintbrush, still dripping with paint, and zagged it lazily over the bridge of her nose. She shrieked in protest, giggling loudly, then managed to return the gesture. The fighting was getting frantic now; both circled each other like predators, limbs taut, obviously waiting for the other to make a fatal mistake. John couldn't get enough of the light dancing in his wife's eyes, nor of the melodious laughter issuing from her mouth. It made him chuckle too, completely enamoured by the way that she was so obviously enjoying their playfulness, and that only made her eyes shine more brightly than ever. She loved seeing him having as much fun as she was. It was rare for them to laugh like this. There hadn't been much cause for them to do so in the past, so for them to be able to do so now was a heady sensation.

Anna dipped her brush into her woeful bucket of paint, swilling it about as best she could until it coated the bristles. Waiting until he took a step closer to her, she whipped it across his nose, leaving a stripe of paint horizontally across. He wrinkled his nose and raised his hand as the excess paint began to drip down towards his lips, and she laughed gleefully at his distaste.

"You'll pay for that," he told her with a grin, then lunged forward with his own brush. She shrieked as he painted a determined stroke down the line of her jaw. She wriggled in discomfort as it trickled down her skin and disappeared beneath her dress.

"John Bates," she said, "that was an utterly beastly thing to do."

"I'm sorry, love," he said. "But you were rather asking for it."

She snorted at that, shaking her head. "And you're asking for a smack."

His grin was decidedly lewd, and it made her stomach flutter. "I don't think I could complain about that."

"You're impossible," she said.

He flicked paint in her direction. "And you're just as impossible, Mrs. Bates."

She wasn't sure if it was his seductive tone of voice, or the way that her married name simply rolled like gold from his tongue. Whatever it was, before either of them really had the chance to react, she had launched herself at him again, uncaring that she had left herself open to assault, and pasted the last remaining contents of her bucket completely down one side of his face. John spluttered in shock, reeling backwards and raising a futile hand to his face. Paint dribbled down his neck, disappearing into the v in in his shirt. She imagined it sticking to his chest hair. The thought made her tremble.

"That's it," he growled at her. "This stalemate is at an end. I'm no longer going to be a gentleman and give you a chance. I've been too kind to you so far."

"Too kind?" she teased. "Are you sure that you're not trying to make excuses for your pitiful inadequacies?"

"Not in the slightest, my dear," he said. "You've been allowed to take advantage for too long now. The real fighting begins now."

"Very well, then," she said. "I think we need new battle stations."

"You're taking the idea of me trouncing you soundly nicely in your stride."

Her smile was somewhat nostalgic. "What can I say? I survived the turmoil of the Great War. I'm sure I can survive the war you're waging against me."

"We'll soon see," he mused, and then leapt forward without warning. She shrieked as his brush caught her temple, and she stumbled backwards. He was after her in a second, grimacing a little as his knee protested against the movement, brandishing the brush like a gun. Anna knew that she had to act fast. While John was superior in both strength and ammunition, she also had her own strengths – she was smaller than he was, and therefore not as clumsy, and she was also faster than he was, untroubled by unwilling limbs. Toppling to the side, she steadied herself against the wall before scrabbling away.

John was lumbering after her in a second, chuckling. Anna couldn't stop her own grin in reply, turning when she was a safe distance away so that she could direct it at him. Wielding her own brush in front of her, she widened her stance and stood her ground.

"Stay there," she warned.

He took a couple of leisurely steps towards her, smiling broadly. "Or what?"

"Or I'll paint you again."

"That's hardly a scary threat, is it?" he said, gesturing to himself. She had to giggle at that. He was already covered from head to toe in various splashes of paint. It coated both sides of his face, flecked his hair, drenched his back, dripped from his chin. He was right; a bit more paint wasn't going to make much difference to him. She doubted that she looked any better than he did. She could feel it drying on the sides of her own face. It wasn't a very pleasant sensation, but she couldn't mind, not when John was grinning at her so deliciously.

"Then I'll use my brush to smack you," she amended, and he threw his head back and laughed. God, she loved the way his eyes twinkled.

"You seem to have a fixation with smacking me," he teased.

"That's because you're a very smackable man. My brush is itching here."

"Then this sounds like a risk that I'll just have to take," he said, then reached out and grabbed her around the wrist again. She squealed as he skimmed the brush against her throat, leaving a thick white stripe in its wake, and he grinned, dropping his mouth to hers for a cheeky kiss before pulling away before she could recover.

Her limbs were physically shaking as he pulled away. His taste was overwhelming. But she wouldn't concede defeat. Not yet. Not without a fight.

Letting her gaze sweep over the room, she let a wicked grin curl at the corners of her mouth. In contrast, John's brow furrowed.

"I'm not sure I like that look," he said. "I've only ever associated it with mischief."

"Well," she said, "my mother used to say that everything good comes to him who waits. And I think I've waited long enough now."

"Anna…?"

She didn't answer him in words. Instead, she backed away a few paces, then charged straight at him. Her little body hit him square on, and he stumbled backwards a few paces, paint sloshing over the side of his bucket and his arms pinwheeling. She anchored one arm around his waist to stop herself from toppling over, then expertly plunged her brush into John's flailing paint pot, succeeding in covering her arm in paint, but ultimately wetting her brush again. To emphasise this, she streaked her brush triumphantly over his forearm, then let go of him before he had the chance to recover, dashing madly over to the sofa.

John somehow steadied himself, blinking in utter shock before turning to meet Anna's gaze. A smirk of his own spread across his features.

"That was inspired," he conceded.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Bates," she said. "Are you sure you don't want to concede defeat yet?"

He shook his head. "Oh, most certainly not."

"Then I hope you're prepared to be humiliated."

"It can't be as humiliating as what happened in front of the Duke of Crowborough all those years ago." His tone was sardonic, but he was grinning. She relaxed a little at that. That had always been a touchy subject with him.

She was about to open her mouth to reply, and he took the opportunity to lurch determinedly towards her. She squealed loudly as he flicked paint in her direction, feeling the droplets land in her hair, and he laughed out loud at the sight of her backing away from him as quickly as she could. Darting around the back of the settee, she paused and waited for his next move, panting. John made to move in one direction. She moved in the opposite. He moved the other way. She mirrored him.

"You're not serious about doing that, are you?" His tone was amused.

"Why not?" she said.

"Well, it's a little bit cowardly, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, cowardly or not, it's keeping me safe," she said tartly.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," he retorted.

"Oh yes?" she said, raising a challenging eyebrow. "Would you care to prove that?"

"Gladly," he said. She stood watching him from one side of the sofa. Her limbs were tense. Evidently she was ready to scarper as soon as the need arose. But John was determined that she wouldn't get away this time. He feigned lumbering left. She squealed in hysteria, flinging herself prematurely right in a desperate attempt to avoid him.

Right into his trap.

Once again, with the agility of a striking lion, he'd veered to the right, giving a leap that he knew would make his knee give him hell for later on. There was so much of the young, arrogant soldier in him at that moment, and Anna couldn't prevent the shiver of longing from seizing her spine because there was just something so _erotic_ about the purpose flaring in his eyes and the way that his strong body could move, defying his limitations. He managed to catch her around the waist, propelling them both forward until they came to a rather unconventional stop against the settee. The paintbrush fell from his hand at the movement, and he cursed as it fell onto the sofa, splattering paint over the seat. Not that it really mattered. The sofa was already broken as it was – their exuberant lovemaking on their very first night in the cottage had proved to be too energetic for the old chair to take. Halfway through some rather impressive manoeuvring, it had promptly collapsed on one side, sending them both tumbling to the floor amid their hastily discarded clothes. Anna's hysterical peals of laughter had warmed his heart, and he had been unable to prevent himself from chuckling too, laughing themselves breathless over the unpredictability of it all; soon after that, however, they had been quite breathless for other reasons as she'd led him from the room and upstairs to their bed to finish what they'd started downstairs. They really needed to replace it before they went back to work – it wouldn't do for any guests that they might have raising questioning eyebrows at the thoroughly defeated-looking couch. No, now it was just lucky that the paint pot hadn't pitched forward with the brush. Anna, for her part, hadn't seemed to have noticed his mishap. She was too preoccupied for that.

He had her pinned against the arm of the couch, their breaths mingling as they panted for breath. Anna was hanging half-over the arm, and clung to his neck desperately lest she fell completely down onto it. She had dropped her own brush and pot to the floor, where they lay rather dejectedly. His dark eyes were burning into hers; she did not fail to see the way that his gaze slipped from hers so that he was staring at her lips. It sent heat blistering through her veins. God, she always melted when he looked at her like that. It made her feel as if she was the only woman in the whole world. From where she was half-laying, she could feel him pressing rather awkwardly into her stomach. The heat pulsing from the front of his trousers was overpowering. She knew in that instance that she had to bring their playful paint war to an end in favour of surrendering under that touch. Just the thought of what he would do to her was making her thighs tremble and her most intimate area throb. He was clearly feeling the effects as much as she was; his breathing was rather ragged against the side of her face, and his own hands, anchored on her waist, began to stroke her sides softly. Slowly, lowering her gaze to his own mouth, she lifted herself up to him, moving to press her lips against his. When their lips finally did meet in a soft kiss, they made mutual sounds of appreciation. Anna's hands tightened their hold on John's shoulders, and he held her more firmly, his tongue brushing over her lower lip in question to deepening the kiss. She opened her mouth to him at once, and they spent several minutes simply enjoying the feeling of their tongues seeking each other out. Soon, however, it was no longer enough.

John stroked his right hand tenderly from her waist, bringing it up to cup the side of her neck. She shivered at the sensation of his fingers caressing the skin there, wet with paint. She didn't think she should be finding it as erotic as she was. They were still kissing ardently, urgently; Anna felt her own hands moving of their own accord from his shoulders to grasp at the front of his apron, which was frustratingly preventing her from grabbing more securely onto his clothes. He broke away from her then with a gasp, resting his forehead against hers and gazing deep into her eyes.

"Anna," he whispered. "Oh God, Anna."

Her blood temperature rose several degrees at the husky quality of his voice, and she raised a trembling hand to run it through his hair, thankfully pomade free. She loved it loose like that. She found him attractive all of the time, but there was something utterly entrancing about the way he looked casual. She very much appreciated the way that he had left the top of his shirt open, the stiff collar and tie thankfully absent; she could just make out the beginning of his dark chest hair peeping through the v shape. She realised that she'd left specks of paint peppered in his hair when she'd finished running her fingers through it, and she giggled a little.

"What's so funny?" he asked her breathlessly.

She shook her head, tilted it to the side. "Nothing. Kiss me again. Please."

He groaned at her command, dipping his head helplessly to carry out her wishes. Her lips were so soft, so gentle. He could lose himself in her mouth for hours.

Anna, however, had other ideas. After a few blissful minutes of simply kissing, she pulled away from his mouth so that she could slide her lips over the line of his jaw, expertly skipping over the dots of paint that had accumulated there. John's breath was ragged against her, nuzzling his nose against her ear and making her shiver. God, she needed more of him.

Pulling away from him, she proceeded to shuffle forward a little, wrapping her legs around his waist. He groaned shudderingly as he felt her pressing against him so intimately, and he swept her up in his arms, lifting her as best he could, the paint pot hitting her side as he did so. His knee was going to give him bloody hell in the morning, but he couldn't care, not at that moment. Not when she was wrapped so provocatively around his body, her mouth fitting itself to the underside of his earlobe, flicking her tongue teasingly under it. His groan rumbled in his throat, and he thought his knees might give way under him. He reflexively tightened his grip on her waist, and she squeezed her thighs around him. He groaned again at the sensation, burying his head in the side of her neck. Unfortunately, however, he soon had to lower the both of them to the floor, his knee beginning to protest more irritatingly.

"I'm sorry," he gasped as she released her grip on his shoulders so that he could lay her flat on her back. His mouth twisted in self-loathing. "It's my knee…"

"It doesn't matter," she reassured him. "Come here."

He smiled faintly and did as instructed, leaving the paint pot to one side, knees either side of her body, wincing as he distributed his weight evenly over both.

"John?" Her voice was heavy with concern. "Are you all right?"

He didn't want to be the one to bring their lovemaking to an end before it had even started when it was quite clear that they both needed it, so he gave her his best smile. "I'm perfectly fine. Honestly."

She was kissing him in the next instance, and then the pain ceased to matter. He could feel her fumbling with the ties on his apron, and he broke away from her so that he could help her remove it without the distraction of her mouth. Anna did not seem to take too kindly to that, however, so instead turned her attention to the sensitive spot on the underside of his jaw. He shuddered at the sensation, scrabbling at the knot, untying it triumphantly. He had to pull away from her to throw it over his head. She whined in protest, but cheered considerably when she realised that the rest of his clothes were now revealed to her. She flicked open the buttons on his waistcoat, and then discarded it completely, flinging it blindly into the room. He winced when he heard it hit the wall; he had always liked that waistcoat, although it had been ruined a long time before it had hit the wall, what with her enthusiastic paint-throwing. In any case, this was more than worth a ruined waistcoat.

Anna's hands were busy undoing the row of buttons that kept his chest hidden from her inquisitive hands. Bit by bit, his shirt was parted, baring his chest hair to her touch. She attacked it with fervent desire when she parted the shirt completely, almost desperate to run her fingers through it. There was just something completely and utterly erotic about touching that hair, feeling it shifting against her. It was utterly fascinating. She would never be able to get enough of it.

John flung the shirt from his shoulders as soon as it was completely open, and she moaned in delight as he pressed himself to her. One of her hands took the plunge and drifted over his back; she winced slightly at the feel of the drying paint coating there. He distracted her with another kiss, encouraging her to sit up as he settled back on his haunches, his hands snaking around her back to fiddle with the buttons on the old, baggy dress that she had thrown over the top of her working one. She let him continue, dropping her mouth to his shoulder and lavishing the skin there with ardent kisses. His breath was ragged against her ear as he tried to pull her head back up so that he could smother her mouth with his; she relented after a few moments, tasting the skin for good measure with her tongue before allowing him to take possession of her mouth. He had her dress open at this point, and was grateful that he didn't have to pull it over her head, thus interrupting their kiss, and he threw it over his shoulder with a wicked grin over her lips. She loved to feel the curve of his lips over hers, and moaned in the back of her throat as his hands crept up to the back of her old best dress. Heat flooded low down in her body as he began to unbutton it, finally moving away from her mouth so that he could concentrate on flicking open the intricate line of buttons trailing down her back. She returned her attention to his neck, not wanting to lose a moment's contact with him. She'd discovered just last night that he seemed to enjoy it when she darted her tongue along the line of his throat, so she set about doing that then with the greatest enthusiasm.

"Anna," he gasped, and she felt it rumbling in his throat, sending shivers down her spine.

She made a humming sound in the back of her own throat, not wanting to pull away from that intriguing patch of skin. He dropped his head against hers, burying his nose in her hair.

"You do realise that you're making it very difficult for me to concentrate," he said, voice muffled against her hair.

She made a sound of acknowledgement, nipping at his collarbone for good measure. The pace of his fingers was frantic now; he was almost frenetic as he attempted to tear the dress from her body. There was a distinct ripping sound as he managed to tear it roughly from her shoulders, and it made them both pause in mutual horror, pulling away from each other so that they could glance down. The shoulder had ripped.

"I'm so sorry, Anna," John said at once, mortified. "I didn't think that that would happen –"

Anna interrupted him then by throwing her head back and laughing. He had time to appreciate the delicate slope of her neck and the hair tumbling about her shoulders before she was looking him in the eye again, a huge grin tugging at her lips.

"That's all right," she said. "I'm just glad that this is an old dress."

"I can try and fix it for you later."

"Surely fixing dresses is woman's work?" she teased, beginning to hitch it up so that she could pull it over her head.

His breath caught in his throat. "I fix his lordship's clothes. I fixed your bag. I don't think a dress is too far a stretch. As long as you promise not to tell anyone so I can keep my male pride intact."

Her giggles were loud as she succeeded in disentangling the dress from her hair and squashed it into a ball to throw in the direction of his waistcoat. He stroked his hands over her arms and immediately moved them to the ties on her corset as she moved back against him. She raised her own hands to help him complete the task, and they giggled shyly together when their hands tangled as they tried to accomplish it. Eventually they did manage it, and Anna let him take control of removing the corset from her body. His hands returned to her shift at once, reverently beginning to draw it up her body, and she raised her arms above her head to let him, shivering as his hands grazed the warm skin of her sides. When he'd accomplished this, he quickly busied himself lavishing soft kisses just above her breasts, and she sighed softly, leaning back and arching into him. The feel of his mouth on her skin was divine.

After a few moments, he leaned her back properly so that her back was against the floor. She glanced up into his face in question.

"I think we need to get you out of these now," he said huskily, dropping his fingers to the waistband of her undergarments. Her nod was eager, and he began to slide them down her legs, leaning down to kiss her softly. She whimpered as she felt his hands sliding the full length of her legs, setting her skin on fire. God, it felt wonderful.

John's heart was pounding hard in his chest. He couldn't wait to have all of her revealed to him. He had seen her naked countless times now, but the sight of her so exposed would never cease to affect him. Her undergarments were around her ankles now, and he tugged them off with a casual flick, letting them fall to one side before raising his eyes to observe her.

God, what an absolutely breath-taking sight she was. John sat back on his heels to observe her for a moment, his eyes tracing the lines of her naked body. He glanced back up to find her eyes staring straight up at the ceiling, and he crawled up the length of her body so that he was pressed snugly against her. She whimpered a little at the contact, dragging her gaze away from the crack above her head and meeting his eyes. He raised a hand and tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her face up to his.

"Do you know how absolutely beautiful you are?" he breathed, eyes burning into hers.

"You're just saying that." She managed a weak grin, looking self-conscious. Before now, he had never really observed her with such scrutiny. Before, they had always been too eager to feel each other's bodies – they were too impatient to spend too much time looking when they could be feeling.

He shook his head earnestly. "No, I'm not. Not in the slightest. You are beautiful, Anna. Utterly, utterly beautiful."

"Even when I'm covered in paint?" she managed to joke against the inexplicable rush of tears that she felt upon hearing his words. She had never imagined that he could look at her in such a way, with such religious reverence in his gaze, as though she truly was the most wonderful sight he had even gazed upon.

"_Especially _when you're covered in paint," he said, moving to kiss her cheek softly.

She blinked. A tear escaped. He pulled back when he felt the wetness against his face, peering concernedly up at her.

"Anna, what on earth's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't even know," she sniffed. "It's just…no one has ever said the things that you say to me before."

"Then they're all fools and I am so glad that they are," he murmured, brushing them gently from her face. "Because if they hadn't been fools then I might not have been here with you now."

"You would have always been here," she reassured him. "My heart could never belong to anyone else."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, then pressed his lips against hers. It reignited their passion, and soon Anna's hands were scrabbling along the length of her husband's unclothed back, feeling the sticky unpleasantness of the paint that had seeped through his clothes and stained his skin. He didn't seem to notice it, too enamoured by her lips, but when her fingers reached the waistband of his trousers and slipped under the rim, he pulled away with a groan, dropping his head against her neck. She swept her fingers through his hair, listening to him catching his breath and taking great pride in the fact that she was the one who could please him like that, the only one who would ever know him like that ever again.

When he looked back up at her, there was a fire burning in his eyes.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he breathed, his fingers coming up to glance across her shoulders.

"I know," she reassured him, arching under his touch, desperate for him to move lower.

He seemed to be able to read her mind, for he held her gaze steadily for a few seconds longer before lowering his head and shifting down her body. He spent several minutes tasting the intriguing jut of her collarbone, running his tongue along the hardness and savouring the salty taste of her skin, and then trailing wet kisses down to her breasts. Her breath hitched in anticipation, and her moan was loud when he finally flicked his tongue experimentally over one of her nipples.

"Do you like that?" he panted between licks, raising his eyes to her without pausing in his ministrations.

"Oh, yes," she sighed, toes curling beneath him.

"And what about this?" One of his hands snaked down between their bodies to rub enticingly across her stomach.

The aching low down intensified as her body responded deliciously to his touch. "Oh, yes," she sighed again, pushing her body more firmly against his, desperate for as much contact between them as possible.

He stayed infuriatingly over those two spots for a few moments then, his tongue wreaking havoc over her breast and his hand burning against her belly. She whimpered insistently beneath him, her sounds of pleasure rising in pitch by the second, reaching a crescendo when he sucked her nipple right into his mouth, teeth sinking into the sensitive peak and then chasing away the momentary pain with the flick of his tongue. She was glad that they were alone so that she could be as loud as she needed to be.

His eyes were still gazing up at her. God, how did he know exactly how to evoke such feelings from her?

He finally lifted his head from her breast, and she whined at the loss of contact. He silenced her by reaching up and pressing his lips softly to hers, letting his tongue slip right inside and slide under hers. Her fingernails dug desperately into his back. The hand still stroking her stomach slipped lower. And lower.

She pulled away from his mouth with a loud wail when she felt him stroking over where she was so hot and achy.

"Does that feel good, Anna?" he asked her earnestly, rubbing her gently. "Does it?"

"Yes!" she gasped deliriously, hips undulating awkwardly against his hand. "Oh, yes!"

He continued whispering words of encouragement to her as he continued to move his fingers over her, stroking that hard little nub that brought her so much pleasure. She gasped and mewled and shuddered below him, unable to formulate any coherent words for a reply, the things he was whispering hoarsely in her ear only serving to make her hotter. His body was straining towards hers, desperate to answer the primitive call, but he held his nerve. He was determined that Anna should have her fill before he even started thinking about himself.

Which, all things considered, wasn't very difficult. Her voice urged him on above his head, her hands sliding through his hair and tugging ardently at the locks.

Anna was almost in heaven. There was a loud ringing in her head. Her body was flushed all over. She could feel the sweat at her temples, on her lower back, in the hollow between her breasts. His name was a prayer on her lips. She could feel it building inside her, that sweet tension. It started as a delicious ache in the pit of her stomach, then spread like wildfire through her limbs. She was vaguely aware of crying out, of her limbs jerking as the warmth spread, seizing her from the tips of her toes to the tops of her ears. The tension built and built and built, and she begged him to let it end, to let her fall, to _please_ let her find release…

And then she was soaring high, higher than heaven, her limbs spasming uncontrollably, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. John lifted his head from her breast and began to whisper soothing words into her ear. She could feel how hot her cheeks were as she brought her hands up to swipe at them, and he smiled as she smeared the paint more pronouncedly over her features.

"I take it that that was good?" he said lowly into her ear, unable to resist nipping at her lobe. She sighed in pure contentment, nuzzling affectionately against him. He let her take as long as she needed to recover from her high, content to lie there with her and meet her lips in a soft kiss, even though he was throbbing insistently within the confines of his very tight trousers. Eventually, though, she pushed him back enough to run her hands down the length of his chest, shuddering at the sheer sensation of having those coarse hairs beneath her palms. His breath was hot against her cheek as he nuzzled her there, whispering broken promises of love to her as she stroked perilously low, seeking out the button on his trousers. He trembled as she found it, and she held her breath as she worked it open. His groan of appreciation was loud as she managed to push the trousers down his hips, freeing him from the confining layer. Now there was just one layer preventing her from seeing her prize, and she let her hand pass over the hard bulge there, seeking him out with curious fingers. He grunted beneath her, bucking his hips into her hand, and she soothed him gently by pressing her lips to his. Her fingers rubbed him through his shorts for a few seconds longer, and she bit her lip in concentration as she worked him, attempting to find the way that pleased him the most. He jerked in her arms as her palm slid along his length, and he pulled back from her enough to pull his shorts down, cursing quietly under his breath as they caught around his ankles. She giggled a little at him, returning her hands to his chest so that she could run them over the broad expanse in appreciation. Her giggles were soon muffled by his mouth over hers as he managed to kick his pants off and fall back on top of her. They spent a few minutes simply kissing like that, growing accustomed to the feel of their naked skin pressed together, knowing that they were both on the brink of losing control. Anna could feel him pressing into every inch of her, and it was simply divine. His hands moved to her hair, running his fingers through the tangled mess.

"God, you're so beautiful," he breathed, staring down into her face. "So, so beautiful."

She kissed him to silence him, and his hands continued to run through her locks. There was something about her hair that he found wholly mesmerising, and she didn't know what that was. But she found it just as fascinating; to know that she could have such an effect on him in such a simple way. Today in particular, she'd noticed the way that he'd been eyeing her hair up, as though it was casting a spell over him and he simply couldn't look away.

Right on cue, John spoke again, muffling his words against the side of her face. "God, Anna, you're hair looks so beautiful like that. So gorgeous. I don't know how you can make it look so wonderful."

"It's just a messy plait," she said rather self-consciously. "Do you want me to take it down?"

"Not right now," he said huskily. "I rather like it just like that."

She felt herself flushing as he bent in and kissed her again, twisting the locks through his fingers. She reached up and wrapped her arms around his back, wrinkling her nose against the sensation of crusting paint and arching up against him slightly as one of his palms came up to brush against her nipple. He moved his tongue to the sensitive underside of her ear, teasing her over that spot, and she whimpered aloud as he did so, hands scrabbling frantically over him, seeking purchase, kneading the muscles in his shoulder blades. His palm moved more firmly over her breast.

And then he was interrupted by a shriek. Startled, he looked up, wondering what on earth was going on, only to almost bang his head against hers as she pulled herself hastily into a sitting position, issuing what sounded like a mild expletive.

"Anna, what in heaven's name…?" he began bewilderedly, but then his gaze landed on the floor, and he couldn't refrain his smirk.

"Oh yes, this is very funny, isn't it?" she said somewhat sourly, raising a disapproving eyebrow in his direction. Even that couldn't quell his mirth.

Paint pooled around the vicinity where Anna's head had been, seeping slowly across the floor. The bucket lay upended rather sorrowfully nearby.

"What on earth happened?" he wanted to know, biting his lip to suppress his grin.

"I must have knocked it over with my arm when I let you go," said Anna sheepishly, and he couldn't help laughing at the expression on her face.

"It's not funny!" she protested.

He sobered at once, though his eyes twinkled. "No, it's not. My apologies, Anna."

"You don't mean that."

He bent down, sucked her earlobe into his mouth for a few seconds, feeling her melting beneath his touch before he pulled away again. "No, I don't."

"I should punish you for being so nasty towards me. If I wasn't mistaken, I'd say that you were taking a leaf from Thomas and Miss O'Brien's book."

"Well, their methods of nastiness leave much to be desired," John lamented, "but they have rather perfected that wonderful scathing look. It really is rather impressive. All of the younger servants are terrified by it. Perhaps if I'd imitated it earlier, my time in prison might have been easier."

"What do you mean?" she asked curiously, the smile disappearing from her face at the mention of prison.

"I don't mean anything," he said at once, cursing himself for pulling them out of the playful atmosphere.

"Yes, you do," she said. "I wish you'd stop doing that. It makes me feel nervous."

"What?"

"You know, that. Talking in riddles and making cryptic remarks. And you still haven't told me about why I couldn't visit you in prison, or how you managed to get Mrs. Bartlett to change her statement."

"Do those things really matter right at this moment?"

She glanced down at the way their bodies were touching, and was reminded almost painfully of how much she wanted him to touch her, even through her niggling doubts. "Well, yes, of course they do. I know that you find prison difficult to talk about, but I would one day like to hear all about it, even the most horrible of things. I know that you think you're doing me a service by not telling me, but you should know me better than that now. I'm stronger than I look. I managed to endure you being in prison, didn't I? And I'm stronger because of it."

He smiled down at her gently, bestowing a gentle kiss to her nose. "Are you quite finished?"

She flushed as she realised that she'd been in the middle of a rant, and nodded a bit embarrassedly, running her fingers lovingly down the side of his face. "If I promise to leave it alone for now, do you promise to tell me everything when I ask again?"

His face twisted at the thought. "You won't be proud of me when you hear about it. _I'm _not proud of me for some of the things I did –"

She squeezed him, stopping him in his tracks. "John, I would never judge you for anything. I promise."

He looked deferential, meeting her lips in a soft kiss. "I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do," she said. "So, do you promise that you'll tell me everything when the time is right?"

He paused for just a second longer, then exhaled the words in her ear. "I promise."

She could tell that he was sincere, and leaned up to kiss him softly.

"Now we can drop the subject," she said lovingly. He squeezed her hand gently. The effect was ruined a moment later, however, when he pulled away from her.

"Good," he said, smirking roguishly, "because I'm rather intrigued by how you were going to _punish_ me."

"John Bates," she exclaimed. "Is that all you can think about?"

"It is when we're like this together," he said without shame, glancing down at their naked, tangled bodies. "Don't tell me that it's not affecting you too."

"I think you know it is," she breathed, nuzzling under his chin. "But even so."

He tightened his hold on her, lowering her back to the floor. She protested weakly as he did so.

"What's wrong now?" he panted as he broke away from her mouth.

"There's paint all over the floor."

"Well, it's not like you're not already covered in it, is it?"

"I'm not as covered as you are!"

"Then perhaps this is payback," he purred, sliding a hand pointedly down her side.

Her scowl was utterly adorable. "You know, I might actually act on my threat of punishing you."

"Hmm?" he agreed, lowering his lips to her collarbone. "I must admit, the notion is terribly exciting."

"Well, don't you want to know how I'm going to do it?"

"Oh, yes," he growled in her ear. "I'm eagerly awaiting it."

She thought fast on her feet, throwing her left arm out to her side. John's quizzical frown barely lasted two seconds before she was bringing her hand back to his chest and splaying her fingers against it. He started visibly at the sensation, trying to pull away from her. She held firm, lazily dragging her palm down his chest, shivering at the tickling of his chest hair, coming to rest tantalisingly at his hips. She was tempted to move further down, the searing heat radiating from between his legs almost too tempting to resist, but let her fingers linger where they'd stopped.

"What on earth was that?" John asked as he glanced down. She was pleased to see that he still looked confused, and bit her lip to restrain her smile. She let her gaze follow his.

Paint besmirched the front of his chest, the imprint of her hand over his heart strong before it streaked in the direction of his stomach, like smeared condensation on a window pane. It clung to his chest hair, and she watched as the droplets congealed there. He shifted his hips above her, and she was suddenly aware of the way that it trickled provokingly towards the hairs just below the line of his stomach. Quickly, she raised her eyes to his face again.

"You naughty girl," he growled at her.

She couldn't contain her giggles then. "Well, you did want to know how I'd punish you."

He shook his head, grinning. His hand crept along her thigh, sliding down to the back of her knee, pulling her leg so that it hooked around his hip. Anna didn't even bother trying to mask her gasp of approval as she felt him pulsing against her. She shifted eagerly against him.

His hands caught her along the line of her hips, fingertips grazing just above the swell of her bottom. By mutual consent, their mouths met in a fiery kiss. Fingers clutched tighter. Bodies shifted, desperate for more contact. Mouths parted for much needed air. Both of them were panting harshly into the quiet of the room. They had to be together properly again.

It was John who broke first, grasping her hips and beginning to shift with her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Anna," he panted. "But I have to feel you right now."

She moaned, chest hair rubbing so alluringly against her. "Don't be sorry, John. I have to feel you too. God, please!"

It was all of the encouragement that he needed to lift her hips, push her thighs more firmly apart and slide inside her, making them both groan loudly. Anna clawed frantically at his limbs as he shifted the weight of his body, trying to bring him even closer to her. There was a burning within her, a soreness that had been brought on by the frequency of their lovemaking over the last few days, but it was a wonderful soreness, the best kind, because it had been brought on by him.

"Christ, Anna," he moaned, holding himself still so that they could both grow accustomed to the heady sensation of being completely joined once again, "you feel so _good_."

Her reply was an unintelligible grunt, palm sliding against the paint on his back and smearing it across his backside once she reached there. The feel of her hands so low on his body was enough to make him want to move within her, and he started rocking his hips against hers. There was no finesse in his movements, no slow, lazy roll of his hips, no sweet build up like she was used to in the other times that they had made love; instead, she was treated to the sensation of him pushing into her as far as he could go, the delicious sensation of him moving hot and hard inside her, the friction he created against her body incredible. She gasped and moaned enthusiastically, barely having time to draw breath between the waves of pleasure that were crashing almost wildly through her body. The blood in her body was too hot. She could feel the sweat pooling at her temples, between her thighs, in the valley of her breasts, under her arms. The fire was spreading from his body onto hers, she could tell. His hands were brands against her, sliding up her sides to find her shoulders, catching the sides of her breasts as they passed. She squeezed him tightly between her thighs as he moved within her. God, he felt good. Her head fell back again, her eyes sliding closed, unable to concentrate on anything but the sensations that were playing out within her body. She could feel the muscles in her stomach contracting deliciously, constricting more urgently with every second that passed. Good God, she thought hazily, surely she wasn't close to finishing already?

John was busy lavishing her neck in wet, clumsy kisses, right at the spot that was most sensitive to her. Wanting to reciprocate even a little of the pleasure that he was showering on her body, she began to knead the skin of his backside, trying to gauge if it was bringing him any pleasure. He made a low growling sound, but she wasn't sure if that was because of her ministrations or because he had altered the angle of his hips – she certainly couldn't help but moan at that – so she dug her fingernails in more forcefully, raking them slowly down the curve of his backside and feeling the goosebumps that erupted there. This time he did groan, muffling it against her heated flesh, tasting the sweat sheening her skin. His fingers grazed the inside of her arm as he ran them from her elbow to her wrist, pulling them away from their anchor on his behind so that he could raise them to his lips. His mouth barely grazed the inside of her arm, and she quivered and moaned at the sensation, arching her back when his tongue found the crease at her elbow. God, had she ever been this responsive before? Had that spot that John was now teasing with his teeth ever been so sensitive? Her head swam pleasantly. Her stomach contracted more demandingly. It had spread lower now. She could feel herself pulsing in time to his thrusts. His moans had risen in pitch. Clearly he could feel her tightening around him, pulling him in deeper, squeezing him tighter. She whimpered, twisting her head to the side, vaguely aware of the fact that her cheek was pressing against the paint that had pooled over the floor.

His lips descended over hers again then, and she was powerless to do anything but kiss him back with equal fierceness, letting her tongue tangle with his, shivering at the feeling of his tongue sliding over both rows of her teeth, his lips capturing her bottom one between them, sucking there briefly before his tongue swept back into her territory. She was vaguely aware of his hand creeping lower over her stomach, nails grazing her deliberately, making her skin crawl pleasantly.

"You're so beautiful like this, Anna," he panted in her ear, gaze half-lidded and burning into hers. "No man on earth has seen a more wonderful sight than this one, I promise you."

His fingers circled her so gently. Her thighs trembled beneath him. Her cries were coming in a constant stream now, a mixture of incoherent pleas and encouragement and his name, desperate for the end to come.

His lips kissed at the underside of her jaw, butterfly soft and intimate. The fire was growing hotter. She could feel the sensation clouding her mind, flooding her body like molten silver. Her stomach swelled with the incredible sensation. It was spreading, chasing down every nerve in her body, arrowing straight to her brain. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. John's fingers shifted just slightly.

In the next instance she was crying out, overcome, throwing her head back and wailing. She lost all sense of direction as her limbs trembled and bucked, pressing her body as close to her husband's as possible. He was whispering lovingly in her ear as he stroked her there, but she couldn't tell what he was saying above the loud pounding in her head, the harsh pants that left her body. For a few moments, she was sure that she was in Paradise, so exquisite the pleasure was. And then, slowly, it began to fade, leaving her fighting for breath there on the floor. She was only vaguely aware of the fact that he had stopped moving within her now that she'd finished, lowering his head to press feather light kisses against her eyelids and her forehead and her nose. She whimpered again, much more quietly this time, as pleasant aftershocks seized her body.

"I love you," John was murmuring in her ear. "I love you so much, darling."

She pressed herself closer to him, needing his warmth and reassurance as she recovered from the pleasure.

"I love you too," she choked in reply, tightening her grip on him and nestling herself against his chin, feeling her heart rate slowly returning to normal as he pressed his mouth tenderly to hers.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, as though speaking any louder would disturb the newfound tranquillity of the room.

She raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek in her palm. She was trembling, she noticed. Evidently he had noticed too, for he turned his head to kiss her fingertips gently.

"I'm all right," she whispered back, then dropped her hands to his waist, kneading at the skin of his sides. Tentatively, she raised her hips against his, sliding him inside her, making him gasp unheeded. "You can go on now, if you want."

Her cheeks burned as he muttered a breathless few words of appreciation, his hands sliding back to her hips. His hips began to roll in some semblance of a steady rhythm, but it seemed as if he was too far gone now to truly master his earlier tempo. Little aftershocks continued to race through her body, and her toes curled against his ankles as he thrust into her, arching himself into her as far as he could possibly go. He was no longer as composed as he had been for the duration of their lovemaking so far, and she kissed the frown of exertion that had darkened his face. His skin was combusting against her, and she stroked her hands against his back. The paint had started to run, diluted by the sweat that had pooled there, and she moved one of her hands back around to his chest, combing through the dark hairs there. She tentatively reached up to touch him, her teeth taking his lip, remembering how good it had felt for her when he'd done the same to her. A whimper escaped from his throat, and she pulled away just slightly, enough so that her lips could still brush against his sensually as she spoke.

"Let it come, John," she murmured against him.

And then he was crying out too, the sound low and guttural and so very welcome, his hands grasping desperately at her sweat slicken sides, his fingers digging into her, his hair flopping over his forehead in a sweaty mess. She felt warm all over, impossibly warm, the feeling of him inside her swelling to a crescendo. For a suspended second, he held himself above her, trembling on his forearms, before he collapsed down on top of her, his head buried in the crook of her neck, his limbs still convulsing with the after-effects of what they'd just experienced. She held him tight against her, uncaring that he was winding her a little, wanting only to stay as close to him as humanely possible, loving the intimate feel of his skin on hers after their exertions. Sweat trickled from between his shoulder blades and she swiped it away, leaving a streak of paint across his back – though it was already adequately covered from their earlier paint fight. John glanced up at her then, cheeks scorching, before pulling away from her enough to flop onto his back beside her, amidst the spilt tin of paint. Anna felt a pang of loss at their separation. She always hated that part, the part when they became two separate entities again. She wondered if it would ever get any easier for her, or if the times that they had been forced apart in the past had forever made her resentful of the end. She hoped that nothing would be able to come between them again now that they were so happy together. Silence reigned for a few minutes.

"I think I'm going to run a bath," she said at last, rolling onto her stomach to search for something to wear. There was no point in her pulling her dress on over her body, so instead she reached for one of the sheets that they had used to cover the floor and wrapped it around her body.

John tried not to stare at her as she did this, tucking the sheet tightly around her breasts and tugging at the length of it. "That sounds like a good idea."

She glanced down at him, lying there naked. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of him.

"What's wrong?" asked John, noticing the way that she was looking at him.

She shook her head. "Nothing." Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she bent down and retrieved a sheet for him, holding it out for him to wrap around his waist.

He stood shakily and did so, raising his eyebrows questioningly at her.

"Well, there's no sense in one of us waiting until the bath is clear," she said. "We might as well use it together."

He stepped towards her, wrapped her in his arms. Her hands slid down to hold the sheet in place around his waist, and his rose up to mirror her actions. They shared a giggle, looking bashful. Anna reached up quickly to peck at his lips.

"Come on," she said. "Let's go."

He dropped his hands from her sheet to grasp at his own again, and she copied him, taking his left hand in her right. He linked their fingers together securely, and she led him from the carnage that they had left in their wake.

"I'm looking forward to a bath," he admitted as they walked into the hallway, preparing to head upstairs to the tiny bathroom. "This paint feels awfully uncomfortable."

"So am I," she confided, glancing up at him in sly coyness. "I've a feeling that I might need help scrubbing this paint off, and I know you'll be a perfect gentleman and help me."

_Oh God._ The blood heated in his veins. "Of course," he murmured.

The decorating was forgotten for the rest of the day.

* * *

**A/N:** Um, yeah. That's that. You might recognise a piece of Molesley dialogue from episode eight. Blame the Tumblr world for that - they were the ones who suggested that John could say it when the spoilers were released by Digital Spy.

I've got a couple more updates to post before Christmas. We'll see how that goes.


End file.
